


Tropical Storm

by AdelaCathcart



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: F/M, Ghost Stories, Masriel if you squint, No Strings Attached, One Night Stand, Snowed-in Trope, technically canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25943554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdelaCathcart/pseuds/AdelaCathcart
Summary: “You see I find myself stranded, Mr. Scoresby, and I really must get to Nova Scotia by tomorrow evening. I hear you have a balloon for hire.”“For the right price, I do.”“I can pay.”“In that case, ma’am, I’m at your service, satisfaction guaranteed.”[A chance encounter between two people who have absolutely no business hooking up, but bad weather makes strange bedfellows.]
Relationships: Marisa Coulter/Lee Scoresby
Comments: 15
Kudos: 38





	Tropical Storm

**Author's Note:**

> On the surface this pairing (we're calling it "Leerisa") is patently ridiculous, but you have to admit it presents some interesting possibilities. Inspired by the recent Tropical Storm Isaias, and my own passion for unmapped territory.

At first glance, Lee mistook her for a witch. True, she had no bow or cloud pine, and she wore expensive wolfskin instead of tattered silk, but not all witches bothered with those things. In over twenty years as an aeronaut he'd had encounters with his share of witches, and he'd learned that no matter what they wore you could always spot them by their queenly bearing. That she had in spades. The incongruous world-weariness in her youthful face was another clue, he supposed. And then of course, her dæmon was nowhere in sight, which disturbed and fascinated him. He wrapped Hester more tightly into the breast of his coat and corrected himself wryly: he’d better _hope_ she was only a witch.

She was gazing wide-eyed at the waning gibbous moon, almost as if it were speaking to her, and when she opened her mouth to reply he saw movement in the branches high above. A golden monkey—her dæmon, Lee realized—leaped down to perch on her shoulders. The branches must not be as high as they'd seemed, then. The monkey said something to the woman, raising a tiny black finger to point, and Lee politely touched his hat brim to her as she turned to look, but his hand froze when her gaze hit him with the force of a blow. Her eyes flashed pure malevolence, but only for a moment, and then she seemed to forget him entirely. She riffled through the pages of a small commonplace book and, finding her spot, lifted the receiver of the pay telephone to make a call. It must’ve been a trick of the light, he thought. What could such a sweet-faced woman have to be so hateful about? But the monkey was still watching him intently, his face a dark smear in the sunburst of his mane, and his bright white teeth were bared.

Well, Lee knew enough to cut out when a woman looked at him like that, so he slid around the corner towards the side door of the tavern he’d holed up in, and carefully broke the cherry off his half-smoked cigar. As he tucked it away in his breast pocket for later, he heard a sob of rage echoing across the lonely street, followed by a series of ringing crashes, as if someone were banging a heavy phone receiver on its cradle. The wind was picking up, the trees thrashing violently.

“What the hell was that?” demanded Hester as he shut the door against the cold.

“Beats me,” Lee shrugged. “Looked like trouble’s all I can say.”

“Mind you steer clear, Lee.”

“I sure intend to. Hey François, ‘nother rye here when you get the chance?”

The owner gave him a quick nod; he was deep in conversation with a couple of Skraeling fur trappers who might have news about the bad weather coming up the coast. The harbor that kept the little seaport town of Nantasket in business had already been shut down, with no traffic allowed in or out, and local folks were battening down the hatches. Lee had arrived two days ago carrying a troupe of big game hunters wanting to try their luck against the elk and moose of New France, and he’d lingered hoping to rest and pick up another job to cover his return trip, but the storm arose too fast. Now reluctant to risk his balloon, Lee was as stuck as the rest of the fishermen, traders, and drifters bunking in François’ spare rooms and drinking his booze to dampen the sting of lost work. Lee set his hat on the bar and helped Hester to the stool beside him, where she sat up, alert, with her little nose twitching. When François appeared with more drink and more bad news, Lee took both in one gulp. No one would be getting out of Nantasket before tomorrow.

An hour later Lee was half-drunk and floundering in a game of trumps against the Skraelings. François saved him from losing his shirt with a shout across the bar: “Lee! Hey, Lee! Get over here. The young lady wants a ride. I told her you’re the man for the job.”

“Might be,” Lee shouted back, throwing his cards on the table with a laugh. “I fold! Don’t spend it all in one place, Gentlemen.” He gathered the hare in his arms, plunked his hat back on his head, and still smiling, turned to see what adventure fate had in store.

It was that witch.

No, not a witch, of course: no matter how deft an acrobat, a monkey could never be a witch’s dæmon. Her wolfskin hood was pushed back now, and her golden hair was tumbled around her cheeks, which were flushed in the heat from the wood stove. If she remembered seeing him outside she gave no sign.

“Lee Scoresby,” he said, offering his hand. “What can I do for you?”

She shook it. “You see I find myself stranded, Mr. Scoresby, and I really must get to Nova Scotia by tomorrow evening. I hear you have a balloon for hire.”

“For the right price, I do.”

“I can pay.”

Lee named a figure.

“Done.”

“In that case, ma’am, I’m at your service, satisfaction guaranteed.”

The woman looked at him strangely then, in a way that gave him a chill. Her monkey dæmon cautiously touched her hand, and spoke to her in an undertone: “When he finds we didn’t wait for him—“

“It will do him a world of good,” she answered tartly, pushing him away. To Lee she continued: “I don’t suppose there’s any chance we could leave tonight?”

“No, ma’am, there ain’t. Even if we didn’t mind the storm, my balloon’s all packed up at the depot, under lock and key. The soonest I can get it’s when they open sunrise tomorrow, and then another half hour or so to get it ready.” She made an expression of exaggerated disappointment. He leaned an elbow on the bar and added confidentially, “Unless it’s a matter of life or death, of course. In that case we could always sneak in, break the door down, and take our chances.”

She laughed, mimicking his posture, her eyes bright with mischief. “I see you share my taste for adventure. But tomorrow morning will do fine.”

“Fair enough.”

Her gaze flicked almost imperceptibly to his mouth.

“And what shall we do until then?”

Lee ordered another round.

The woman selected a corner booth at the rear of the bar, where the high-backed benches hid her face from everyone but Lee. While she shucked off her furs and warmed her fingers over the hurricane lamp, he collected two glasses and a bottle of the strong ale brewed by François’ wife, Hélène. Hester stood upright, pressing his leg with her small paws to get his attention.

“Be careful, Lee,” she urged him. “Something’s not right with that woman.”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” he smiled. Her ears flattened against her head.

“We’ll see. But get the money up front, will you?”

People passing through a crossroads like Nantasket don’t always like to talk about their business, so when her charming conversation offered not a scrap of autobiography, Lee didn’t pry. In the warm flickering lamplight, he told her stories from his own childhood in Texas, the ones he and his sisters used to frighten each other with around the campfire. He told her about the halfwit cannibal family that lives out on the blackland prairies, interbreeding, tanning their victims’ skins and wearing the leather, feeding the last unwary traveller to the next at their ramshackle barbecue stand, which is never found in the same place twice. His arm was outstretched as he talked, and then it came to rest on the back of the bench cushion, and finally, with a shiver, the woman tucked herself under it.

“But it couldn’t possibly be true!” she gasped playfully. “All those people disappearing? Surely someone must have noticed. Weren’t their friends and relatives looking for them?”

“Nope. They was halfwits, sure, but wily too. They mostly took loners, folks nobody’d miss.”

“Like us... And how did they process the meat, and the leather? There would need to be some established facilities for them to do it in. No one ever found that?”

“No ma’am. It’s big, lonesome country out there. Don’t nobody go wandering in it ‘less they’re lost or stupid or both. Place like that, you could set up just about anything you wanted and not a soul’d bother you. My cousin John, though—he saw ‘em once, he used to say.”

“He did?”

“He was out hunting rattlesnakes and he met a girl. Young, he said, and beautiful, and she spoke to him sweetly, and asked him to come with her out into the tall grass.”

“And?”

“Well, he did, and she lay him down out there and they started in to kissing. But then she went to take off her shoes and he saw there was something strange about them. The fronts, you know, where they were tied? They were mouths, real human lips, laced together with hair.”

“No! Did he run?”

“He did… Not as soon as he could’ve, I expect.”

She laughed, a light pretty sound like a stone skipping on a pond. He took a drink, and when he set his glass down and turned back to her she kissed him. Just a soft friendly kiss, like a question: a little spit, a little pressure, her lower lip tucked between his, no tongue. He peered into her face to read her intentions, and her expression was inviting, eyebrows raised and lips slightly parted. So he curled his arm around her, pulling her to his chest, and kissed her fully, as a man kisses a woman. The storm was picking up. He could hear rain lashing the windows, wind banging the shutters outside.

The woman was melting in his arms, flowing with him into the corner of the bench; her hip bumped the table's edge, eerily jostling the lamplight. She made little humming sounds of pleasure as her fingers twined in his hair. One hand lay on his chest and he laced his fingers through hers, and touched metal. He looked down to see she was wearing a wedding ring.

She moved to kiss him again, but Lee pulled away, holding up her hand in his. “Anything I ought to know about?” he asked gently.

Her eyes dropped to her lap. “He was killed.”

“I’m sorry, honey,” was his automatic response, but the hint of a strange smile at the corner of her mouth made him pause. Then he realized: “You mean someone killed him.” The smile grew. “You…? Or—no, a… another man.” Now she was watching him with curious amusement, an eyebrow raised; her face showed not a trace of shame. Lee exhaled heavily, rubbing his eyes. “And where’s _he_ now, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Frankly, Mr. Scoresby, your guess is as good as mine. So many tedious questions! Anyone would think you were losing your nerve.” She leaned in close, pressing the length of her body on his, and slid her thigh between his legs. Finding his nerve very much not lost, she smiled up at him, so infinitely sweet he could easily imagine that a man might kill for her, or die for her.

“No’m, I just try and keep my nose clean is all,” he said, but softly, nuzzling her cheekbone. He felt her grin against his mouth once her tongue found his.

“What a crock,” Hester muttered at his side.

Lee’s hand drifted up the woman’s side to cup her breast over her blouse, his face in the crook of her neck as he found the nipple and rolled it under his thumb. She moaned softly, leaning into his hand like a cat asking to be petted.

“Where are you staying tonight, Mr. Scoresby?” she whispered, her head tilted far to the side, offering her neck for him to kiss.

“I have a room upstairs. You can call me Lee.”

“I’d rather not. But you can show me your room.”

Lee brought the glasses and empty bottle back to the bar. When he returned to the booth to collect his coat and hat, he found the woman and her dæmon distracted, whispering together bitterly.

“You’re doing this just to antagonize him—“ the monkey was saying.

“Nonsense. He’s made it clear he doesn’t care a bit what I do,” the woman answered. “Why shouldn’t I enjoy myself?”

“As long as that’s really…” The monkey saw Lee then and trailed off, and he and the woman exchanged a look of mutual loathing. Lee smiled obliviously, hoping to put them at ease, and offered his hand. She took it, and followed his long strides up the dark, uneven back staircase, making the monkey scamper to catch up.

She was a passionate woman, that much was obvious, but at least to begin with she let him set the pace. He touched her reverently, thoroughly, because it was a pleasure to do it; he spread her naked on the threadbare quilt and tasted the honey dripping from her while the monkey stroked Hester’s soft fur, murmuring endearments. The woman’s climax was so rapid and unmistakable that Lee, regretting a missed opportunity to show off, was about to try for another, but she was already sitting up, beckoning him with wide, angelic eyes, cooing, “Please, please, I can’t wait any longer…”

The force of her will was overpowering; he could deny her nothing. He bent over her and kissed her face as he entered her, but she soon tired of making love sweetly. It was all he could do to keep up. She rode him strenuously fast and with a kind of desperation, nearly bouncing off him entirely with each upstroke. Her back was slick with sweat. _If she slips she’s gonna goddamned break it_ , he thought uncomfortably, even as he prayed she wouldn’t stop. To the woman he said, “You want it a little rougher, honey?”

“If you think you could manage that,” she replied, short of breath but no less imperious.

Lee chuckled. “Try me.”

He grasped her by the waist and sat up, folding his legs under him, forcing her facedown with her hips in the air. There was no time to admire the view, though—already she was rocking on her knees impatiently, demanding that he take up the rhythm. Never one to refuse a lady if he could help it, Lee matched her frantic pace, his hips slapping against her, satisfyingly loud. He felt her relax in his hands slightly and knew he was pleasing her. She peeked over her shoulder at him, her dark eyes wet and urgent.

“Hit me,” she ordered him.

The powerful instinct never to strike a woman almost choked him, he felt it deep in his chest from childhood, but the urge to give her anything she asked was stronger still. With his open hand, he smacked her hard across the ass.

She yelped, and he felt the little spasm of her cunt on his cock, just as if she had sneezed. One hand slipped underneath her; he felt her nails graze his balls as she stroked herself. Her other hand crept up the bedspread to grasp the cast-iron footboard, rust flaking red on her palm.

“Harder than that,” she gasped.

Lee examined the red mark of his hand glowing on her delicate skin. It was hot to the touch. For the first time that night he had the strong sense that they were doing something truly illicit, and it excited him in the extreme. “If you keep up like that I’m gonna come real soon,” he murmured.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’ll wait until I’ve finished with you. Now.”

He struck her and this time he tried to feel guilty, thinking the distraction might help him to outlast her. The effect was strange and unexpected: there was shame, yes, but also astonishment at what desire for her had made him do, and he felt himself helpless, her creature, even as she writhed under his blow. Hurting her gave him no pleasure, but her response to it was intoxicating. She was drenching him now, he was swimming in her, he was nearly drowning.

“Again,” she said.

He hit her with all the force he could summon, and wrung a squeal from her which became a moan as she bucked against him and the iron headboard hammered on the wall. A violent shudder moved through her like a wave as she used his body to fuck herself, and when it eased she fell to her side panting, wisps of hair glued to her forehead, and slid off him with a little twitch of her hips. One wilted hand still hung from the bed frame.

For a moment she was smiling, eyes closed, serene as a madonna. Then she saw him and seemed puzzled, as if he were a curiosity which had only just materialized before her. Her eyes dropped to his erection, still wet from her and painfully in evidence.

“You can take care of that yourself, can’t you?” she said calmly.

“Yes ma’am.”

She rolled onto her stomach, lying lengthwise across the small bed facing away from him, with her legs spread wide so he could see every detail of her. Hard fucking had left her cunt swollen and vivid like a lady’s-slipper. Just above, on her round pale buttocks, were the red marks of his hands, and past that, fine hairs at the base of her spine glinted golden in the gaslight. She dangled an arm off the bed, idly petting her dæmon while Lee jerked himself off. For the second time, the monkey pointed over the woman’s shoulder to draw her attention to Lee. Her cheek rested on her forearm and her voice was lazy and muffled as she instructed him: “On my back, if you please, Mr. Scoresby.”

With a final exhilarated rush he felt his built-up pleasure cresting, and knelt between her legs, careful not to touch his skin to hers. Lee was no longer young and couldn’t easily get the distance once had, but by leaning over her and with an effort of his pelvic muscles he managed a pretty respectable shot. His semen spattered across the handprints, the golden hairs, the lean muscles of her back; a drop or two fell on her shoulder blade. She propped herself up on her elbows. It oozed down her spine into the cleft of her ass.

“Rub it in,” she said. She sounded tired.

A curious request perhaps, but again Lee was perfectly game. Her golden skin under his fingers was like hot beach sand. While he stroked her she rolled to her side, her head propped on her hand, watching him thoughtfully.

Very gently, cautious of spooking her, he said: “I don’t know what your trouble is, sweetheart, but it seems like you’re runnin’ from something. It’s none of my business what. But whatever it is, you oughta know it can’t get to you in here. For now, right here, tonight, you’re safe with me.”

Her voice was infinitely weary, and her beautiful eyes full of doubt, but still she curled herself into his open arms, resting her heavy head on his breast, and let him pet her hair softly as she whispered, “That's very kind, Mr. Scoresby.”

The eye of the hurricane was passing over them now. Delicately, the monkey crept across the bedspread, and with one dextrous little paw, switched off the lamp.

Lee woke alone, which he probably should have expected. The only evidence that the woman had been there at all was a small stack of bills on the nightstand: payment for the balloon ride they’d agreed upon last night.

“Shows you what she thinks of us,” Hester sniffed.

“Should I be insulted?” Lee said, tucking it into his billfold.

“Just be glad you weren’t robbed.”

Downstairs François was serving breakfast and the worst of the storm had passed. Nobody had seen the woman since last night.

“I left her with you,” François said with mock suspicion. “Question is, what’d _you_ do with her?”

“Not a thing she ain’t asked me to,” Lee chuckled, digging into hot grits and bacon drenched in maple syrup.

Hélène brought out a fresh pot of coffee. “You mean that blonde with the monkey dæmon? I know where she went.”

“Where?”

“I heard it last night—early this morning, I guess—loud noises, and lights too. Not the storm, something else. I looked outside to see. It was a gyropter.”

“A gyropter landed here? How?”

“He didn’t have an easy time of it, I can tell you that. He was mad as hell, yelling like the devil. What a racket! I bet you anything she went off with him, though. No sign of ‘em now. _Tant pis_.” Wrapping a dishtowel around her coffee pot, Hélène squeezed out from behind the bar.

“Sounds like you were smart to lay low this morning, Lee,” François was laughing.

“None of my business,” Lee shrugged. “Gonna have to find another customer now, I suppose.”

“I can help you with that,” said François, pointing. “Talk to those Skraeling trappers. They’ll be looking for a ride out of town now the weather’s clearing.”

As he used a bit of bacon to wipe up the last of his grits, Lee turned to his dæmon. “Well, how do you like that?” he said, licking his fingers.

She laughed. “We always land on our feet, huh?”

“Can't help it if I'm lucky,” Lee smiled. Then he folded the hare into the breast of his coat, placed his hat on his head, and turned to face his next adventure.

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is real in Lyra's World.
> 
> This fic was made possible by the generous encouragement of MazeltovCocktail. It is dedicated to all the clowns of Clown Town.


End file.
